PTSD
by NotJasonTodd
Summary: Three drabbles showing the symptoms Jason Todd has of PTSD. Several are triggering, be careful.
1. Nightmare

There was a loud crack of the crowbar and Jason screamed, feeling the breaking of his rib bones. He could hear maniacal laugher and the smell of the damp warehouse flooded his nostrils. He watched as the crowbar was raised above his head again, his whole body was tense, waiting. It came down with a sharp crack and Jason could feel the pain reverberating through his entire body.

He screamed, jumping up in bed and flailing around the knife he kept under his pillow. He could feel a wetness streaming down his face and he tried to steady his breathing. _You're safe, you're alone. No one is coming for you. You are alive._

He curled into a ball, clutching the knife to his chest and trying to stop his ragged breathing. _You're safe, you're alone. No one is coming for you. You are alive._

Several minutes passed and he began to slow his breathing. He still was white-knuckling the knife as he sat up and ran a shaky, sweaty hand through his hair. He felt cold. He grabbed a pair of sweats and got up, walking to the kitchen. No way he was sleeping after that.

He poured himself a shaky drink, placing the knife down on the counter in front of him. After drinking all of it in two swallows, he elected to just drink straight from the bottle instead. He grabbed the knife from the table and his box of cigarettes from the kitchen drawer, and took the bottle out on the balcony. Shutting the door behind him, he sat down on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him.

He took another swig of the bottle, letting the cold December air freeze his bare chest. He laced his fingers together, feeling their coldness and trying to warm himself up. _You are alive._

He took another swig from the bottle, hoping it would numb him to the point of not thinking anymore. Most nights when this happened he would stay out here until morning, or he would get so drunk he would just pass out outside. Pulling a cigarette out, he lit it, warming his fingers in the orange glow of the flame.

He inhaled a deep breath, filling his lungs. Exhaling, he watched the smoke rise up and curl in the air. He took another swig, letting the amber liquid warm his insides. He could feel it hitting him slowly as he took another long drag of the cigarette. Exhaling, he tried not to think about anything at all.

He took a few more swigs until he put his knees to his chest, trying to warm himself up. He finished off the cigarette, putting it in the ashtray that he left out here. He buried his face in his knees, letting the alcohol haze relax his tense muscles. _You are alive._


	2. Morphine

Jason felt pain. Not just pain. The searing, hot, cracking pain of his insides was tearing him apart. He could hardly see, his vision was black. Someone could have been touching and he wouldn't even have known. All he could feel was sharp, stabbing pain from inside himself. He groaned, letting his breath come and go with the blinding pain.

He could hardly move, he was curled in on himself, feeling like his ribcage was being broken from the inside. He looked around for the kit he kept under his bed. He knew it was here somewhere.

He let a cry escape his lips as he bent down to open the box. The adrenaline had gotten him back to the safe-house, he knew he had several broken ribs, hopefully nothing punctured. At this point he didn't care. He didn't want to die, but if he had died right then and there he wouldn't have minded. He vaguely thought that Catherine would be happier to watch him die of an overdose than being beaten to death again. He would so much rather be the one to kill himself than have another maniac put a bullet in his brain. He wondered if anyone else felt that way, he was sure they would if they had gone through what he had. He refused to let someone kill him.

He rummaged around in the first aid kit for what he knew would help. He felt his hands wrap around the small glass bottle of morphine. Just touching it gave him solace. He made himself look down, maneuvering his body so that he was sitting on the floor. To the protest of his body, he felt like he was cracking in half. He was delusional and he thought that the top half of his body would just slide off and slide next to his legs. What a funny sight that would be.

He sucked in a painful breath and found a clean syringe. He opened the package, ignoring the red spots in his vision. Sticking the needle in the top of the bottle, he sucked out the clear liquid. Pulling it out, he tapped it, making sure there was no air inside.

Clenching his teeth, he stuck the needle in his bicep and pushed it in hard, he needed a big muscle. He could hardly feel himself groaning in pain before pulling the needle out, all the liquid was gone. He dropped the syringe, hearing it clatter to the ground.

He felt fire. Not just in his ribs now. The fire licked down his arm and to his chest. Once it his his heart, the fire was everywhere. He could feel his blood pumping the heat through all his extremities. His body was rigid as the fire throbbed in every part of his body then back into his heart.

The fire died, and his body relaxed against the foot of his bead. He vaguely felt a dull ache in his ribs, but the fire was gone. The fire had taken the pain away.

He had vowed himself he would never shoot anything into his arms. He couldn't have the track marks he had seen so many times on the family he had loved.

Catherine had often joked as a kid that he had the family veins, perfect for finding. He never really understood what she had been talking about until he was older and he had watched her veins collapse. At that point she had been shooting up in different places, she didn't care what happened to her body anymore.

He wanted to speak, to tell his mother he was sorry. To tell his mother he had to do it. He had to make the pain stop. He wanted to explain, they were different, he would never be an addict. His mouth would not be willed to open, he was too tired now. His chest felt like it had been made of bricks. He looked down at his broken body before closing his eyes, hoping nothing would plague his sleep tonight.

He just wanted something to take the pain away.


	3. Suicide

**[[please don't read this if you have triggers, this is an exercise in writing Jason Todd as a trauma victim, if you are at all triggered by flashbacks, suicide, paranoia or anything of the sort please do not read, it brought back some of my own trauma just writing it]]**

Jason crumbled in the warehouse. He sat down on his legs, looking up at the rafters, feeling a nagging sense of familiarity. He looked around, knowing he got the same nagging feeling when he went into familiar warehouses.

It had been a bad week. He didn't know why he wanted to come here. He couldn't remember. Had he been chasing Black Mask again? He must have. He must have thought they were in this warehouse. He was wrong.

He felt sluggish, his brain wasn't helping provide the information he needed. A laugh echoed off the walls, clear as day, and Jason pulled out his guns, pointing them into the blackness in front of him.

He could hear the sound of metal being dragged toward him. He crawled backward until his back hit a post. _This isn't happening. You are hearing things. You are not in Ethiopia._

His breathing became deeper, faster. The sounds of crunching and screaming echoed off the walls of the warehouse, he knew the Joker was here. He had to be. He couldn't just be hearing things. He heard another stomach-churning laugh in the darkness.

His breath was coming in shallow sobs, he swung the guns around wildly, hoping to find the source of the imaginary noises. Suddenly his breath stopped. He could hear it.

He heard the shallow, light sound of the ticking. It was quiet. It was in the distance.

His body shook. He couldn't escape, it was all around him. He heard another crunch of his own bone. It couldn't be made up. What was happening? Usually his flashbacks were quick, over by now. He could hardly breathe anymore, his guns were shaky, waving in the darkness.

All he could hear was the ticking, it was getting closer. He was going to die. He felt a panic wash over him as the ticking grew louder, pounding in his eardrums. He screamed out, firing his guns aimlessly into the walls of the warehouse. The ticking didn't stop.

Another chilling laugh permeated his eardrums and he fired as many shots as he could into the darkness. He threw the empty guns to the floor as the ticking grew louder. He pulled his legs to his chest, and buried his head into his knees.

"Go away," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes, hoping that would stop the ticking. "Just fucking leave."

Speaking just made it worse, he looked up, expecting to see the Joker, see the bomb, see anything. If someone was there, he could actually fight it. He can't fight his own mind.

"JUST FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY!" He yelled into the darkness. He pulled out his gun from inside his jacket. Feeling the cold metal on his fingertips, he closed his eyes, rolling onto his side on the floor in the fetal position. "Just fucking let me die."

With every passing tick, he grew more and more still. His breathing became calmer, but still unusually deep. He curled in more on himself, exposing himself to whatever attacker may be there. He felt wet droplets falling from his face to the floor, though he didn't know he was crying. He wasn't in control of his body.

He put the loaded gun up to his temple, letting the cool muzzle ground him in reality. Even though it didn't stop the ticking or the screaming, he felt calm. He had the power over his demons. They couldn't get to him if he did first.

He wouldn't let himself be tortured again.


End file.
